Any given weekend, any given suburb, Melbourne, 2024

It is early. I have spent an hour after waking staring down my own reflection as I smear my puffy face with thick and colourful paint and glitter. I have seen a transformation of myself into a human doll as I pull on a wig and wriggle into any of the twenty costumes crammed into my closet. What is it today? A princess, a super hero, a clown? Maybe it will be all three, back to back to back, across the next ten hours.

On the road, people stare at me from their cars. I mostly ignore them, crank my music loud and begin to warm my sleepy vocal chords; something upbeat to start my heart racing and pump my body full of fabricated energy to keep me afloat. Not coffee. Not on a day when I don’t know when I’ll next see a restroom. I’ve forgotten to bring snacks. Whoops. My face, my eyes, my scalp, already itch. It’s barely 10:30am.

I arrive on the street outside the party. I duck as I see children and parents walking past, presents in hands; best not to shatter the illusion early. I am here with time to spare to collect my things, collect my thoughts, and hitch a smile onto my face. Some days it takes every last fibre of my being. I fill my lungs with air, let it all out, lift my hand, and ring the doorbell.

The birthday child’s mum is relieved to see me standing there, my arms full with gear – weapons of entertainment. I enter and scan the scene, immediately scouting the birthday girl: she is sparkliest of them all.  Parents are milling about; their faces turn towards me with eyebrows raised as I saunter in, tripping on my too-long dress. There are little people running around, bouncing to meet me. Others are shyly hiding behind parents’ legs, some are playing in the corner completely unfazed. There are some older cousins too, ready to poke at my guise with delight. I locate the area which has been allocated to me – if I’m lucky there’s a mat laid down and space to move. If I’m lucky I can hear my own voice over the din.

When I first started this job, four years ago, it was near impossible to gather anyone’s attention at all, despite the fact I looked like a giant marshmallow. I would quake from head to toe, exit my body and float above the scene as though drowning in reverse.

Something made me throw myself back in the water week after week. Somehow I knew: if I could do this, I could do anything. It was different to being on a stage. When you are a children’s entertainer the world is your stage, and your audience is brutally, unflinchingly honest.

We start with magic tricks; whilst I make things disappear I am gauging their interests, their humour, their energy; I’m harnessing it in a way which benefits us all in this situation. We play pass the parcel; their attention wanes today, the circle turns into an eggplant. Face painting and balloon twisting will come later, but right now it’s time for the part which used to scare me the most, for it can be a delicate situation for a novice. These days I can do it just like magic.

I instruct them to jump up and wiggle their bodies out like a worm, or an octopus, or a noodle. I show them how to stretch out their arms and legs into a great big star, and twirl around in circles; they pirouette outwards and form a breathable space. It’s a party, therefore we must dance.

There is one song that makes them move. It doesn’t matter how shy, or how old, or where they’re from, or which cultural background surrounds us. They all know it. They all understand what it’s trying to say: sometimes you just gotta shake it off.

Except for when I hear her at the supermarket, or in my sister’s car, or most anywhere else when out in the world, I don’t listen to Taylor Swift. But maybe I should: I have a lot to thank her for. She has saved my day time and time again.

I hit play and we all begin to jump up and down, one swarming mass of excitement. Flailing limbs and uncoordinated leaps; a tottering from foot to foot in an unruly expression of movement. I show them some moves, they show me better ones. The parents are all watching us now, laughing. It’s here where I am able to see this moment for what it is: pure joy. I watch them dance and I am a child again, lighter than air. It’s not like drowning, it’s like flying.

 
 

Stereo Story #790

Gemma’s previous story was about the Jason Mraz song I’m Yours.

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Gemma sings, plays bass guitar, entertains children, performs an Edith Piaf show, is an occasional muralist, an occasional 'zine maker, and currently a member of the Stereo Stories ensemble.